


Life's Liquor in Its Cup Be Dry

by TAFKAB



Series: Drunken Thranduil Doesn't GAF [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arrogant Thranduil, Bitter Thranduil, Come Swallowing, F/M, In Public, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil really shouldn't drink so much, especially not in public.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's Liquor in Its Cup Be Dry

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [merryismaytime2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/merryismaytime2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>     
> Thranduil gets drunk and masturbates in his throne within the view of at least one shocked retainer.
> 
>  
> 
> Title quoted from "The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám."
> 
> "One should always be drunk. That's all that matters..." --Baudelaire
> 
> “There are thousands of wines that can take over our minds. Don't think all ecstasies are the same!” --Rumi

A fell mood now hung over Eryn Galen, where Thranduil Oropherion ruled. Its hold in his heart had strengthened gradually through long years. None could fail to see the decay of his beloved wood, nor fail to understand the import of the creeping darkness that stretched its fingers northward. Likewise, all knew of the westward sailing of the elves and the fading of their kind. Yet Thranduil would not bend; he would not sail. He had no ring to keep safe his realm, but he had no less pride for all of that; he maintained what he could as he could and let the rest slip through his fingers. 

His people were with him, and they remained safe, for now. The castle remained unassailed; the dragon slept upon its hoard, its fires damped. There was yet a time of waiting before the end, and wine still flowed from the vineyards of Dorwinion. It still passed northward upon the River Running. It still filled his goblet with rich, ruby-red oblivion.

He wandered the corridors late at night, silent as a ghost, his guards heeling him. Everywhere he went, they followed, and they would not depart, though he found their presence chafed him. 

“Take a cask of wine and a goblet to my throne, Galion,” he commanded. “I would sit and think.” The long millennia had taught him this: that little mattered, in the end. All would falter and give way. The long defeat would come regardless of his doing. Shepherd over elves of the dark, guardian of a failing realm, bearer of a fading crown, husband of a wife long lost to time and darkness, he had come to know one truth:

Illusion was all. Illusion of strength, of peace, of happiness, of beauty: they were his greatest prizes, save only his son.

Trailing his fingertips against the cool of the walls, he followed his servants as they carried the wine aloft and set it beside his throne, placing a golden goblet upon the cask.

“Stay and refill my cup for me,” he commanded Galion. The guards ranged themselves throughout the hall, watching the entries with alert and gleaming eyes. Tauriel took pride of place on the level just below his throne, her hand upon the hilt of her sword.

Thranduil laughed to himself and sat, accepting the heavy goblet that Galion offered. The throne was not comfortable; it had never been, but Thranduil rode it with grace, reclining as though abed, one leg casually flung over the arm of the chair. His robe, thrown on in haste, hung open, and the cool of the air felt good upon his bare chest. 

He should take a lover to sate his flesh so he might sleep, but as he cast his eye over his faithful retainers, he felt no desire for any. Not for Galion, who had looked on him for long ages with desire. Not for Tauriel, whose eyes followed Legolas when she thought Thranduil did not see. Not for any of the lean-bodied bucks under her command, leather-armored and helmed, carrying their sharp pikes. 

He laughed again, hearing contempt in it, and wondered for whom it was most intense. These elves for whose safety he had sacrificed so much? Himself, for the cowardice that kept him here, at their head, serving as ruler over a dying land rather than daring to confront the darkness and spill his subjects' blood in a doomed attempt to end its sway? The Valar, who lurked in their precious blessed realm across the sea, sundered from all mortal kind by the straight road? By right of birth he might yet swallow his pride and take that path, if only for the promise of reunion with his beloved—should he find it in his heart to bend his knee before the mythical retainers of a lost god whose care for his creation was so little he had not taken a direct hand in its affairs since the day of its birth, retainers who had themselves forsaken the world very early on.

No, his cowardice was not yet that great.

Thranduil laughed again and realized his cup was empty. Galion mounted the stair to refill it and he drank once more, finding its bottom before the dregs could settle and taking another, his head swimming from the swiftly gathering fumes of alcohol. Good, strong wine. Perhaps it was worth living for. It would have to do, in the absence of anything better.

His hand fell upon his thigh, brushing against his cock, and it felt good. It was so good he let his hand rise and fall again, and laughed to see Galion’s cheeks flush. 

“Perhaps you would care for us to bring this wine to your chambers, sire.”

“No, I would not,” Thranduil told him, his voice sharp. “I am yet king of this land, and I drink where I will!” This time he let his hand fall where he wished it, directly atop his cock. Galion stepped back, giving an abashed nod and averting his eyes. “I do anything I wish wherever I will,” Thranduil hissed, lust spiking through him with unexpected speed, crackling like flame in pine straw. “And you will not depart without my leave.”

Ahhh, he should not drink when he was in such a temper, but the flare of fire in him now was more than he had felt in years, and he would not relinquish it. He let his palm caress the length of his cock through his breeches and watched Galion swallow, the tips of his ears flushing delicate red. 

Watching him, Thranduil tugged at the laces that held his breeches closed, teasing them open. It felt good to release the constriction that held him bound, and the mild wickedness of doing this here fed the fire that burned inside him. 

He took himself out, not bothering to glance around; to do such would be to admit to guilt or shame, and he felt none. He could hear Tauriel’s hiss of indrawn breath, and envisioned her surprise; however, she did not stir. Nor did Galion, properly chastened, though his tongue darted out to lick his lips.

Thranduil lifted his wine with his free hand and drank, thumb circling the tip of his cock, which pushed through his hand as it grew to full hardness. He regarded it with calm interest, feeling as though it belonged to someone else, yet pleasure pulsed through his veins every time his hand stirred upon it.

Thranduil drank again, hovering near the giddy edge of daring, drunken bliss, and moved his hand. The sough of skin on skin sounded loud in the silent chamber, where none seemed to dare draw breath except for him. He did so, and moved his hand, hearing his own low moan.

Galion’s ears turned even redder, and Thranduil could see the quick pulse beating at the base of his throat. “More wine,” he whispered, his voice dark and thick with pleasure. He let his hand brush Galion’s as he accepted the cup, and felt his servant tremble. 

The guards stood still as statues, all of them still as stone save Tauriel, who lifted her chin and stared straight ahead, trying to seem wooden, but her eyes betrayed her: her lashes caught the light as she blinked rapidly against startlement, dismayed by her king's wanton behavior. She was quite lovely, gilded as she was by the torch. He thought of her bent over the throne for him, making small helpless cries as he drove inside her flesh, and a droplet of pearl welled at the tip of him. He spread it, purring low in his throat, and knew she felt his eyes on her, for she quivered. 

But she was not enough to tempt him. None of them were. Thranduil laughed, low and hoarse, and could not seem to stop. He was touching the loveliest person in the realm, the only one worthy of the king’s hand. 

Save perhaps one he could not touch.

“More wine,” Thranduil barked, and emptied his cup before handing it away, aware that he now faced the long slow slide into despair and then to sleep. He tightened his hand, moving faster, a silky whisking sound. If he spoke the word the statues would come to life; each one of them would come and kneel to serve him, if he commanded it. 

He drank again and shifted, setting the empty cup aside, and sprawled on the throne. He let his head tip back to gaze up at the branches, at the antlers so delicately rendered in fine-grained wood. He felt his crown tilt askew and fall, and he did not care. His belly tautened and he lifted his hips, pushing fiercely into the channel of his hand. He drew out his balls and cradled them, rolling them slowly between his fingers.

Tauriel bit her lip, white teeth sinking in rosy flesh. Galion’s long, strong hands opened and closed in helpless anguish. The guards stood still as stone.

Thranduil let himself gasp, let himself whimper and moan, and decided he liked the echo enough to fill the chamber with half-throttled cries. 

He fumbled for the cup with his left hand, riding his right with harsh thrusts, his voice rough with lust, thick with something that felt more like rage than pleasure. When his climax struck, he threw his head back and let his groan escape him without restraint, long and lusty, but he did not neglect to catch his issue in the cup amidst the dregs of the wine. 

He subsided, panting, the throne hard, its curves supporting him, the air too cool now upon his belly. His hand clenched on the goblet with enough force to dent the soft gold. 

When he thought he could stand once more, he tucked himself away with one hand and closed his robe over all. He stared daggers down at Galion, who stood with his shoulders bowed, staring at his own feet.

Thranduil dismounted the throne, stepped before his servant, and reached out, forcing his chin up with the crook of one long forefinger. He studied Galion’s eyes, their wide pupils, the blue irises nearly swallowed by black, the whole ringed with dark lashes. 

Thranduil reached to the cask and let slip the cork, filling the goblet near the brim once more. He replaced the cork in the tap and swirled the wine to mix it with his seed, gazing down at its surface.

“Drink,” he lifted it to Galion’s lips, his voice silky.

Galion lifted both shaking hands to clasp the cup, and opening his lips he drank, hesitant at first, then gulping desperately as Thranduil tipped the cup upward, merciless. He drank until every drop was gone, his eyes closed, his fingertips steadying the golden vessel, his throat working as he swallowed. 

When it was done, Thranduil dropped the cup, careless of its ruin, and watched Galion lick his lips. He waited.

“Thank you, your majesty,” Galion whispered, barely audible, and bowed his head once more.

Thranduil turned from him, and giving Tauriel a single, quelling stare, he took the staff of his office and slowly made his way toward his bed, refusing to stagger when he swayed. 

He sought reverie, knowing he would not escape the darkness of his dreaming.


End file.
